Burning Questions
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: Sam's still struggling to earn back Dean's trust after loosing Lucifer, but someone else is about to turn up the heat.


_First appeared in_ Blood Brothers 5 _(2011), from Gold'n Lily Press_  
_For my dear friend Jeanne's birthday_

**Burning Questions**  
K Hanna Korossy

Sam had been too quiet, probably still not feeling all that well despite his protests, definitely thinking too much. Which meant Dean had only one recourse left.

"I can't believe we're hunting a muppet."

Sam shifted around where he sat, but rocks were rocks and there wasn't a comfortable spot to find. He finally gave up and responded to Dean with an obviously half-hearted eye roll. "We're not hunting a muppet."

"Big Bird is a muppet, Sam—a big, yellow…bird on Sesame Street. You should know, you loved the dude when you were a kid." Dean tossed Sam a c'mon-play-with-me grin before peering again around the boulder that hid them from sight.

For those first few weeks after…after Ruby and Lucifer, Sam had risen to Dean's every attempt at humor with a painful desperation to make things right between them again. But they'd done a lot of rebuilding since then, even despite the stupid trial separation, and Dean, a lot of thinking.

The honest affection was back in his teasing these days, and Sam responded once more out of little brother petulance rather than penance. There was still hope for them yet; Dean had to believe that.

Sure enough, Sam was giving him a bitchy look. "Yeah, well, this Big Bird is about thirty feet wide, has carried off a half-dozen cows and two people, and eats a lot more than bird seed for dinner. I don't think you're gonna find that on Sesame Street, Dean."

Dean smirked at him. "C is for Carnivorous."

Sam snorted softly, more amused than he would admit, Dean could see it, then rechecked his armaments. He did that often now. One thing hadn't changed: Sam was still a kick-ass hunter. Even if what they hunted these days more often than not was a way to stop the end of the world.

But then Sam had gotten sick. A tenacious stomach bug the week before wouldn't let him keep anything down for days, to the point that Dean had finally insisted on starting a homemade IV on him. Sam was just now really over the worst of it, only a little lingering weakness and no appetite for anything but bland food still dogging him.

Dean had decided to look for a simple hunt to give Sam a chance to take it easy and get back on his feet. Sam had been skeptical, but despite the hiking and climbing and staring at the computer, he did seem refreshed, regaining his color and some of his energy. Big brother sometimes still knew best.

It had taken two days of hiking and checking caves before they'd found the Big Bird's nest. Tucked into desert cliffs a few dozen miles out of Quemado, the cavern was actually a perfect spot for a trap, if they could pull it off. Another day of research—Sam from the comfort of bed and chair—and gathering supplies—Dean doing the leg work—and they'd put together a way to mask their scents with herbs and incense and chalk shielding symbols around the bird's huge nest, gave the homemade flamethrower in the trunk a test run, and found a good spot for an ambush. Then it was just a matter of waiting until the bird returned from a night of hunting to spring the trap. A two-ton bird in an enclosed cavern, fire, and two fragile humans: what could go wrong?

Still, it felt kinda good. They didn't often bother with a regular hunt anymore, and Dean missed the simpler days. And the easy relationship he and Sam'd had then.

Dean suddenly grew still, casual frivolity instantly shed. "I think it's coming."

Sam tilted up the shotgun—backup to Dean's flamethrower—and pressed against the rock as they waited and listened.

There, the soft whirr of wings in the air. It sounded at first like an owl or falcon, and Dean remembered Sam rambling on about how lore confused the Big Bird with La…something Spanish, an owl-like supernatural hunter that also had been known to go after big prey. Dean didn't really listen to all that boring stuff any more now than he ever had. But then the creature got closer and the flap of its wings became a concussion of air and sound through the cave, and Dean flinched from the racket as he felt Sam do the same behind him. This was no owl, nor muppet.

There was the nails-on-chalkboard sound of talons scraping rock. The bird was advancing cautiously, and Dean let himself worry for a brief second that their scents weren't hidden enough. But Sam knew his stuff, and the Big Bird finally hopped twice and tottered toward its nest. Its shadow stretched long and ominous over the cave wall above the Winchesters' heads.

Dean held up three fingers, then two, then one. Then they were both jumping to their feet, weapons aimed at the back of the creature just as it prepared to settle into its nest.

Dean gave a whoop as he gunned the flamethrower. And tried not to wince as, with an ungodly screech, the thing caught fire and burned, slaloming in its distress into the tight walls around it. Dean twisted and shoved Sam back down behind the boulder as one mighty wing swept too close, and threw himself over his brother.

It was actually pretty awesome. Big Bird had already killed and eaten two people they knew of. It wasn't evil per se, but it was a predator that had to be put down, and…it felt kinda good to actually be able to finish a hunt with a win instead of just surviving. The fact that he'd gotten to use a flamethrower to do it, well, that was just gravy. Dean knew there was glee in his face when his eyes met Sam's wide ones for a second. Then Dean was up and finishing the job.

As the cries of the cryptid died down and it finally went still, just a smoldering heap now, Dean turned back to his brother again. But the sight of Sam, hunched down against the rock, eyes pressed tight and face drawn into lines of strain, instantly drained his joy. The thing did smell pretty foul—heh—and that couldn't be good for Sam's still-iffy stomach. Dean even dared hope his brother was just reacting to a kill, and wasn't that a kicker? Here he'd always wanted Sam to toughen up, and now that he had, Dean missed his brother's dewy-eyed sensitivity. Figured.

Dean sighed and crouched down. "Sammy?"

Sam peeled an eye open. His glare was unconvincing when Dean pressed a palm to his forehead.

Not hot, but kinda clammy. "You feeling okay? Not gonna hurl again, are you?"

They didn't touch each other as much these days. Dean didn't want to; Sam didn't look like he wanted to be. Just another sign of how screwed up they were. But Sam pressed faintly into the touch now even as he weakly protested, "I'm fine."

Right. Dean didn't pull his hand away for a few seconds, and Sam didn't seem to mind.

Sam craned a little past him, not quite looking at the kill. "Dead?"

"Charbroiled," Dean confirmed with a smirk. "You want a leg or thigh?" Sam instantly went a shade of green, and Dean more than a few shades of contrite. Right, delicate stomach. "It's done, Sam," he said more gently. "Miller time. Or, for you, maybe some of that gross tea."

Sam pushed up against the rocks, continuing to look everywhere but at the dead animal that really did smell an awful lot like a roasted chicken.

It was making Dean kinda hungry, truth be told.

"Should we just leave it here?" Sam asked him.

Dean's eyebrows rose. "I don't think it's coming back to life anytime soon. You want me to chop its head off? Always wanted to carve a turkey."

Sam's nose wrinkled up and he beat a hasty retreat toward the mouth of the cave. "I'm going back to the car."

Dean cast a doubtful glance at the dead bird. Well, it wasn't like anyone was likely to find it out here, right? He could always salt it, but that just seemed like overkill. They were done, and Sam needed out of there. Dean nodded to himself and followed his brother.

He hovered right behind in case Sam needed a hand, twice grabbing his arm when small pebbles rolled out from under their feet. By the time they got down to where they'd parked the car, the fresh air and exercise seemed to have steadied Sam, enough that the smile he gave Dean over the Impala's roof was genuine, if a little wan.

Dean didn't even make fun of him when Sam pretty much fell asleep as soon as the engine rumbled to life, rousing only when the car stopped.

Well, not much, anyway.

00000

He woke to something slapping his blanketed foot.

That something, of course, was Dean, looking annoyingly cheerful as Sam squinted up at him from beneath the covers.

"I'm heading into town. You wanna come or stay out here and broil?"

They were squatting again, both for lack of funds and because the closest motel to the Big Bird's cave had been almost fifty miles away. Instead, they'd found an abandoned strip motel in the desert, still furnished with tattered and dusty beds and sagging furniture. The toilet was a strip of sand out back and running water was a jug they kept in the corner and a cooler full of drinks, but they'd stayed in worse. To Sam's still out-of-whack thermostat, the un-air conditioned rooms were comfortable, and the falling desert temps and night breeze through the cracked windows actually made him burrow deep in the blankets when he slept.

Dean, however, hated the sauna heat of the day and made every escape possible. In fact, Sam had figured his brother would want to take off as soon as they were packed that morning.

"Town?" Sam echoed blankly, the end station of that whole exhausting train of thought.

"Yeah, you know, those places with buildings and paved streets and cold beer and flushing toilets?"

"Time's'it?" Sam tried squinting at his phone, only to find it was his wallet he was trying to read.

"Dude," Dean said, looking amused, "just go back to sleep. I'm gonna make a supply run, maybe hit up the local clinic to stock up the kit, and fill up the car. Probably wouldn't hurt to make sure our little field trip last night went under the radar, too. We can head out this afternoon when it gets cooler."

Right; the Impala's a/c was for crap, Dean always claiming to be too busy to fix it although Sam suspected it just didn't bother him enough to do so. He'd always been more a windows-down kind of guy. At any rate, more sleep sounded good. On the up side, being sick had all but smothered the nightmares of wrong-colored eyes and tempting demons and the world burning. On the down, it had sucked the energy out of him like a sponge, and he still hadn't gotten a lot of it back.

"Mmf," Sam responded to his waiting brother, digging his face into the pillow. "G'way an' lemme sleep, Dean."

"Right, good idea. Why didn't I think of that?"

Another smack of his foot, and Sam grumbled in irritation but didn't open his eyes.

"Your phone's by the bed. Call if you need something and can actually make sense."

"Wha—?" Sam frowned into his pillow.

Dean sighed. "Never mind. Say goodnight, Gracie."

"G'night, Gracie," he mumbled obediently, and was out again.

The next time he woke up, seemingly moments later, it was to the door crashing in.

Sam shot upright, utterly disoriented but already fumbling for a weapon. Wasn't Dean, or at least not an okay Dean, and that meant—

A cold, sharp knife dug its point into the soft meat of his throat. "Be a statue," an equally cold and hard voice ordered.

Sam blinked crusty eyes clear to see three figures looming around his bed. Behind them, sunlight streamed in through the hanging door, midday heat following the light in. All three of his visitors were big men in t-shirts and biking leather vests, with scruffy beards and merciless eyes. The one that was bent over Sam, his knife threatening to pierce the skin above his Adam's apple, had a scar across his cheek and smelled so strongly of tobacco that Sam's already uneasy stomach turned.

"Tie him up," the knife-wielder snapped.

The next moment, the other two men converged, dragging Sam's arms behind his back and lashing them together elbow to wrist, a painful position that strained his shoulders and offered little hope of escape. Only then did the knife pull back from his neck.

Sam did his best to glare at his captors despite sitting there helpless in his boxers and t-shirt and having been disgustingly easy to subdue. "I don't know who you are, but if I had any money, you think I'd be staying in this dump?"

Scarface bent low, face creasing in a nasty smile. "Oh, it's not money we want. See, few of us just happened to be camping out in the desert last night, and you wouldn't guess what we saw. Looked like you and your partner had a whole arsenal on you and, well, what do two guys need with that many weapons, anyway? So we figured, maybe you'd like to share."

Crap. Sam didn't let his dismay show in his eyes. If they'd witnessed the aftermath of the hunt the night before, they'd know he wasn't alone, what their car looked like, probably even where Dean—and all their weapons—had gone. Wasn't much left for Sam to bluff with, but that didn't mean he wouldn't try. "I got a knife under the bed," he said evenly, "and a handgun in my bag. My brother's just got an old sawed-off and a piece of crap flamethrower he ditched this morning. We were hunting that thing that was killing the local livestock."

One of the bikers had already found the knife, and the other was pawing through Sam's bag. He tossed aside their dad's journal like it was garbage, and Sam's throat tightened in impotent rage.

"Seriously, whatever you think you saw last night, that's it. We're not, like, militia or anything."

The biker at his bag found the Taurus and held it up in triumph.

Scarface grinned back, then turned to Sam, still smiling. "I don't think you're militia, man, and I don't think you're hunters, either. This here is prime gunrunning territory, and I'm betting we found ourselves a couple of mules."

Sam's mouth went dry. Gunrunners? Of all the confrontations with law enforcement and otherworldly threats they'd faced, that one had never come up before.

"I got nothing else," the other biker called from the far end of the room, where he'd just finished upending Dean's bag and was digging through the cooler.

Scarface's smile turned into a sneer. "We followed your brother into town, but there was nothing in the car and I'm guessing he's got just the one piece on him, so that leaves you, and here. So I'm gonna ask you one more time, buddy. Where's. The. Stash?"

Oh, thank God, they hadn't found the false bottom in the trunk. Nor had they touched Dean, either, by the sound of it. Not that his brother couldn't take care of himself better than this, because seriously? After surviving Azazel and Lilith and even Lucifer's escape, being tied up in his underwear was just embarrassing.

"Hey!" Scarface demanded his attention with a yell.

Sam looked at him calmly, almost pityingly. "Dude. I have no idea what you're talking about," he said, as earnest as he could manage. Which wasn't nearly as much as he'd been able to just a few years back.

Scarface seemed to believe him, though. The biker scowled but pulled back out of Sam's personal space, glancing around the room, then back at him.

"I don't buy it," he finally said.

_Or maybe not_ was all Sam had time to frantically think, before the knife's butt smashed into his temple and he didn't think anything more.

00000

Dean was halfway into town when he realized he had a tail.

Which was just…weird. They were out next to nowhere, Quemado and the abandoned motel they were squatting in the only thing within a hundred miles. Maybe it was just somebody else headed into town, but where'd they come from? And why would anyone be tailing him anyway? Hello, desert: it wasn't exactly hard to see them even in the distance.

Come to think of it, Dean had kinda had the feeling they were being followed the night before, too, but he'd never spotted any headlights and he'd finally dismissed it as adrenaline. It was easy to hide in the desert in the dark, though, and while the figure behind him now was too small to be a cop car, probably a motorcycle, it could be a demon, or a hunter on their trail, or any one of several other possibilities a lot worse than arrest and jail.

Frowning, Dean stepped on the gas.

The figure fell back, then faded completely into the roiling heat of the desert horizon. So, maybe it wasn't following him? Then again, at this point anyone could have guessed he was going to Quemado.

Dean pulled his phone out, finger hovering indecisively over the button to call Sam. But tell him what? That there was another person on the road who might be going the same place Dean was? Wasn't like Sam had a ride to come trap the guy between them. And he needed his sleep. Naw, Dean slid the phone back, he'd wait and see on this one. Maybe it really was just coincidence.

He didn't see the rider again before he got to town. Lucifer was making him paranoid, Dean scowled, and he took a breath and shrugged the tension out of his shoulders as he parked and climbed from the car.

And smiled. Air conditioning, here he came.

00000

His stomach rolled sickly and he was hot.

He'd been stabbed by…by Jake. No, wait, he'd just buried Dean. No, no, it was the demon blood and withdrawal inside Bobby's claustrophobic little prison. No. It was betraying his brother, seeing Dean's face as Lucifer rose.

Sam shook his head, sending pain ricocheting through it and clenching up his stomach. His face felt flushed and sweaty. He was just sick—he'd been throwing up. And Dean had been there beside him, despite Sam feeling mortified at burdening his brother with even that. But Dean hadn't seemed…

No, something wasn't right. Sam forced his eyes open, winced them immediately shut again at the glare, then cracked them again to see…sand. Sand and sun. And not the fun kind with an ocean and girls in bikinis.

Where was he? Sam rolled his head again, groaning at the thunder that shot from his skull, down his shoulders. He was…he was sitting, his back up against something hard, and his arms—

Sam snapped awake, trying to shift legs that just pushed uselessly at sand. His arms were still pulled tight and without feeling behind him, his shoulders far from numb, and he was…he was tied to…something.

Out in the desert sun. In his shorts and t-shirt.

Sam's arms tightened and flexed urgently before he could clear his mind enough to calm the instinctive panic. Right, not getting out that way, just—ow—cramping up shoulders that were already stretched to the limit. His skin was hot and tight, his stomach felt as shifty as the sand, and some of the desert seemed to be in his mouth. And it had taken a long time to figure even that much out; his brain was already succumbing to heat, too. This was bad. This was—

Sam leaned over as far as he could, shoulders and upper back stretched to the point of dislocation, and threw up what little there was in his stomach.

"Heat'll do that to you."

It took three tries before Sam could raise his head, squinting at the dark form silhouetted against the sunlight. Licking his lips just felt like sandpaper against a grater, and he wasn't wasting the spit on a pointless taunt. He just glared pathetically at the captor who grinned down at him.

The guy—not Scarface, one of his buddies—crouched in front of Sam to put them on the same level. A Bowie knife hung loosely from one hand, seemingly forgotten as he looked Sam over. He really did seem to be enjoying this, Sam saw through blurry eyes, grin almost lecherous as it took in Sam's half-clad figure. Great, he thought wearily, dropping his head back against whatever it was he was tied to. Not just an amoral son of a bitch with a knife, but a perverted one at that. Because things could always get worse.

"Don't you wanna know how long you've been out here?"

Sam shut his eyes, the desert sun painting bright afterimages on the inside of his eyelids.

"I'm talking to you, boy!"

A hard smack to the face had his shoulders screaming and blood lubricating his parched mouth. Sam forced his eyes open to stare stonily at his captor. The guy was in arm's reach now, if only Sam had an arm to offer him.

"That's better. As I was sayin', it's getting close to three hours now, in full sun, no water. Stomach's already rocky, and I bet your skin's starting to feel extra crispy and brain's turning to mush, right? How much longer you think you're gonna last out here?"

Three hours. Dean was…Dean wasn't far, right? They'd split up but they were back together, had just hunted…Big Bird, right. Dean had just gone to town; he'd be back. Sam only had to—

"'Course, I got some water right here," the biker continued in a drawl. He'd pulled a flask from somewhere and sloshed it in front of Sam's face with his free hand. The sound of liquid was distracting. "Bet you want it bad right about now, huh? Well, it's real easy—just tell me what I wanna know and it's all yours. I'll even cut ya loose."

The water was so close. Sam's tongue flicked out, only to pull back at the dry heat it found. The flask was right in front of him. The guy, the…

The guy.

Sam blinked, shifting his legs just an inch to make sure they still worked. And then in one motion he drew back and kicked out with all his meager strength.

Getting the guy in the chest would have just sent him flying, and probably quickly scrambling back to retaliate. No, Sam aimed lower, instantly assuring that there was one biker less in the gene pool. Not that it would be a great loss.

There was no howl of pain, more like a strangled suck of air. And then the biker toppled to the side, knife dropping into the dirt as he curled himself into a ball.

It might have been enough, but Sam didn't have the liberty of mercy. He pulled back and donkey-kicked out once more, this time aiming the heel of his foot for the biker's face.

Unconscious or dead, the guy wouldn't be a threat anymore.

Contorting himself in painful wriggles and twists, Sam scooted the knife closer with his foot until it was almost by his hip. He was pretty sure now he was tied to a post, maybe a pipe that ran up the back of the building, leaving a solid but narrow surface pressing against his spine. It should be just enough to…reach…if he…bent his wrist like…that, fingers stretched…

There. Knife.

The guy on the ground never budged while Sam sawed and nicked himself and bobbled the knife twice. Sweat was no longer dripping into his eyes by the time the rope finally began to loosen, and his insides felt pulled tight and ready to geyser out of him when he flopped forward.

He immediately pounced on the flask, not even caring when the heated metal stung his palm. Sam yanked it open and tossed it back.

There was hardly anything in it. Enough to wet his mouth and throat, with a trickle left over to pour on his flaming face, but that was it. Groaning with disappointment, Sam tossed the empty flask aside and struggled to first his knees, then his feet.

Then back down to his knees, pounding forehead pressed against the pole. He could do this. He had to do this. Dean was…not there, and you could only survive in the sun without water for…not long. He was…he had to get out of there.

Arms still numb and stiff, Sam stumbled toward the corner of the motel.

He had been tied up around back. All the doors faced forward, and all of them were open or missing except for the room he and Dean had fortified. That door was shut, and even with swimming vision and iffy thought processes, Sam was pretty sure the other bikers were in there.

As were his weapons, clothes, his phone…and all the water.

Briefly giving in to a flare of despair, Sam leaned his head against the corner of the building. It wasn't fair. Just a stupid hunt…and the world was ending…and these idiots wanted weapons, thought they were some kind of…smugglers? Sam snorted weakly against the peeling wood. Dean would love that. He'd always wanted to be a pirate. Sam couldn't remember much of Dean as a kid, but he remembered that. That, and how much Dean had always loved fireworks and…

Sam opened his eyes, tilting his head back a little. The motel was old, wood construction on a concrete foundation. The desert heat had baked it to dry tinder…and tinder burned.

Hope cleared the thick inertia of his mind and body a little. Jaw set, Sam rolled himself around the corner and shuffled forward, arm and sometimes upper body leaning against the front of the motel for support. One unit, two. Theirs was midway down, the only room that hadn't looked like animals had been nesting in it. Dean had still checked it carefully for scorpions and spiders. Third unit. The closed door was three more away, muted sounds now audible from behind it. Sounded like…music. Zeppelin? Dean would approve No, Sam pressed his forehead, he wouldn't, would think they were defiling the music. He could be territorial that way.

He'd never ceded Sam, even when Sam had done his best to break away.

Fourth unit. Five. The closed door was the next one now, and that was where Sam gratefully tumbled out of the direct sun, into the stuffy heat of the neighboring room.

The smell of decay and animal roused his gag reflex sharply, and Sam curled forward with one arm pressed against his stomach, trying to be silent even as he fought to stay on his feet. His stomach churned, desperate to find relief for his body the only way it could, but losing more fluids was the last thing he needed. He needed water. And Dean. And fire.

But fire first.

He had no matches, of course. No lighter was lying conveniently around, not even flint. Sam wiped his burning eyes and tried harder, peering into the dark corners of the room, searching for…something. It was too dark. Or his eyes weren't working. Dad had taught them what to do, but Sam didn't—

The sun. The sun, and the cracked wedges of glass still stuck in the edges of the room's windowframe. Natural magnifying glass. Dad had a small magnifying glass on his pocket knife. Dean had loved that knife. But he used a lighter…

Sam growled silently, pressing hard against his eyeballs. _Focus, Sam_. Glass, and plenty of sun. He could work with that.

It was hard to do with wavering vision, but he fished out a piece of glass, found the right angle, aimed for a wadded-up blanket. The glass hurt his hand, it was so sharp and hot, and his skin burned from standing halfway outside again. But this was…this would do it. This would stop them and signal Dean and…

A curl of smoke kindled into a small flame. Then, as if realizing the wealth of flammable objects around it, it quickly jumped and spread.

Sam dropped the glass and backed away, out into the sun.

And that was when the plan fell apart.

For a minute there was nothing, just the increasing crackle of flames as the fire grew. Its heat pricked Sam's baked skin, but he stood mesmerized, watching the destruction spread. Winchesters and fire were inseparable, had a history together. It wouldn't like that it was helping him this time.

Then it gave him away.

The closed door suddenly slammed open, several coughing figures tumbling out into the sunshine.

Sam managed to take the first biker down with the element of surprise. A hard right to the chin sent the guy slamming back against the smoldering motel wall and down. It almost knocked Sam off his feet, too, but he managed to catch his balance.

That still left two more.

He tried; he did. He had a knife and fighting skills learned from a Marine and a protective, streetwise older brother. But his muscles felt half-cooked, rubbery and limp, and his head was swimming with heat and confusion. He might have gotten one guy with the knife—there was a yelp—but before he knew it, his arms were twisted back behind him, a hot breath in his ear, a burning knife forcing his chin back, everything hot, blazing and melting.

"Did you think you'd get away?"

The funny thing was, he'd never thought that at all.

00000

Dean had taken his time in town. Neither of them got a lot of rest those days, so he was more than happy to let Sam sleep in, and they were long overdue for resupplying. Everything from a bag of groceries to ammo to a refill of their med kit went into the Impala's trunk and back seat. Dean even found a couple of well-worn Agatha Christies in a used bookstore; Sam didn't read much these days, but maybe those would tempt him. Satisfied, Dean headed into the local pub for a greasy lunch and a couple of beers.

It was when he was putting a six-pack of the local microbrew into the trunk that he noticed the small scratches. Frowning, Dean leaned in, examining the Impala's trunk lock with an experienced eye.

Someone had picked the lock. Dean had sprung enough of them himself to recognize the signs, the tiny scrapes and gouges.

Outrage quickly shifted to something more ominous. This was not good. Skin buzzing with restrained panic, Dean quickly piled the stuff from the trunk onto the sidewalk beside him, cast a glance around, then lifted the hidden bottom.

It was untouched. For all Sam complained about his lack of organization, Dean knew where every single thing in that trunk was, and when something was missing. It was all there, nor did the false bottom look like it'd been pried up. He wasn't positive, but he was pretty sure the supplies in the trunk were just as he'd left them, too.

What the…?

Unease growing, Dean pulled out his phone and speed-dialed his brother. Vague worries or not, he wanted to make sure Sam had a heads up that something hinky might be going on.

The phone rang several times, then clicked to voicemail. Not turned off, but Sam wasn't picking up.

He could still be asleep. Or outside relieving himself. Or maybe he was sick again.

Dean didn't believe any of it, though, as he threw everything back in the trunk and jumped into the car, racing back to the motel.

He was completely sure he wasn't followed this time. And that reassured him not at all.

00000

He should've…

He should've saved Jess.

He should've hidden and waited for Dean.

He should've killed Jake.

He should've killed Ruby.

He should've listened to Dean.

He should've saved Dean.

He should've saved himself.

He should've been a better brother, lover, son, savior, man.

He should've…

He groaned at pain he couldn't even pin down anymore, just everywhere and hurting and _hot_. Always hot.

Things pulled at him. The tender skin of his palms ached with heat. His body felt stretched, distended, snapping.

Something jostled his head, peeled open one of his eyes, but all he saw was bright and burning, and when he moaned and retched, it let go.

It was still too light.

He should've…

"Sam?"

He should…

"Sammy? You with me? Hold on."

His body shook.

"Gonna cut the ropes, okay? Hang on. Got you friggin' tied out…"

Dean, far away. He rolled his head into what felt fleetingly like shade, knowing the respite wasn't real or lasting.

"Okay. Okay. Sam? Talk to me, Sammy."

The rolled…something rolled under…no, he was rolling. Shadow over his eyes, not so bright.

"Crap. Stay with me, Sammy, you hear me? You stay with me."

_Not going anywhere, Dean_. Didn't he know that by now? No matter how hard Sam tried, he couldn't get anywhere.

"That was the last one. Let's get you out of the sun."

Sun. Too bright.

"This is gonna hurt—sorry."

Dizzying motion. Stomach rolling. Head rolling. Eyes rolling. Figure…rolling into view. Behind…behind Dean?

With a knife.

"Dee—" He coughed and shoved a little at the same time.

Falling. Hot again, but maybe he'd just…sleep and…

"Sammy. I got him, okay? I got all of 'em. You did good, just…let's worry about you now, okay?"

Motion. Stomach curdled, like old milk in the sun. Sun…

"Yeah, I know, the sun. Told you it was hot out here—shoulda been in town with me, in the nice cool bar. Instead you throw a party out here and don't even invite me. I'm disappointed, dude."

Disappointed. He flinched, face aching and cracking where it folded into lines of despair.

"Easy, almost… There. Know it's hot in here but I got some water for you, gonna leave the windows down, cool you off a little until we find a place with a bathtub."

He was always a disappointment, even when he tried so hard. Dean was going to leave him with the windows down, let him go, let him drift away on the breeze…

"Here. Just a couple of sips. Just… Sam? No, no way, man, no crying, you hear me? You haven't got enough water in you for that, you stupid—"

Stupid disappointment. He was heaving again, but it was emotion now that was forcing its way up and out of him. He tried to grab Dean, to keep him there and make him listen.

"Sam—"

"Din't want." The words came out thickly, tongue swollen and dry in his mouth. "Din't want it, Dean. Din't want…leave and…not fair, never picked…just wanted life and…family and…never do the right thing." He pulled Dean closer, eyes wide and straining past the searing echo of the sun. "Should've…know I should've but…lost everything and…"

There was a soft curse, then Dean's cheek against his hot one, cool hand against his burning neck. "Not everything, okay? You didn't lose everything. I'm still here, Sam. I'm still here."

He breathed in the damp sweat of his brother, ground himself closer. His fingers clutched and grasped and never quite latched on, but Dean wasn't going away.

Sam sobbed in a breath. He'd tried to be good. He hadn't wanted much, just a life. A love. His family. But there were powers and destiny, bad things mercilessly stealing away those he loved, and such loneliness that it was almost unbearable, and when the chance to save the world came, he'd grabbed. Grabbed it and lost the little he had left, and didn't even have his pride to console him. Just…nothing.

"It's not. It's not nothing. Okay, so things are kind of lousy now, but we're still fighting, right? It's not over yet, Sam. Still got Bobby and Cas, and me. Got your brother."

_Brother. _The word wormed its way through the layers of misery and anguish, taking root. Brother. He had a brother. He was still a brother. Hadn't lost that.

That was…that was a lot. More than he'd dared hope for.

God, he was so tired and…empty and stretched tight, like a hot air balloon. Felt like he'd float away, which didn't make sense because he was so heavy and depleted. Too much sun and pain and…body.  
A soft laugh. "That's what you get for growing so big." Something slid under his head, sifting through his hair to cradle his scalp, and lifted. "Just a few sips, Sam, okay?"

It felt amazing, especially when the wet trickled down his face, into his hair, soaking his shirt and pooling against his throat. Even better when Dean laid something wet and cool over his face and let him down on something equally damp.

"Most of our clothes and the cooler got torched, but I'm guessing you're not gonna wanna wear much for a few days anyway. We'll get some new stuff soon, okay?"

A few more sips just made him want even more, but it also turned down the heat that licked at the edges of his brain. Even the pain was muted by exhaustion.

Cool touch against his cheek, his aching shoulder. "Get some rest—you did good, Sam. We'll leave the bad guys for the cops and vultures and go find you a nice ice bath, okay?"

"Dean," he whispered. It took a ridiculous amount of willpower, but what was one word to fighting angels and demons on a daily basis?

"Yeah, man." A hazy shape, no clearer than before but familiar nonetheless, filled his vision.

He didn't even know, just blinked slowly at Dean and hoped his brother did.

A pause. Then, quietly, "Yeah, I got it."

The cloth on Sam's forehead was slid lower, covering his hot, achy eyes and pressed gently down.

It was an unbearable relief that _someone_ understood.

He was asleep before the car even started.

00000

"Sam…" Dean sighed, rubbing his eyes before he turned his head to the right, resting it on his knees as he continued to keep watch.

He was starting to realize Sam's ability to find trouble was genetic. Grandparents who were hunters, parents who made demonic deals, and a brother who'd died when he was needed the most would have been enough to leave anyone up the creek. Add to that the taint of demon blood, a return from the dead of his own, and addiction, and really the only surprise was that Sam wasn't on everyone's hit list. Still, to be taken down by non-hunter humans…

Sam moaned quietly under his breath, a little of his discomfort filtering through sleep.

Dean reached into the bathtub and felt the water, but it was still cool, not needing changing yet. He rubbed Sam's scalp instead, the only spot on him that wasn't an angry red and wouldn't hurt to touch, and shushed him.

Sam slid back into quiet sleep, only a frown marring his brow as his chin sagged back into the water.

"Yeah, this is fun," Dean muttered, reaching up to stretch aching shoulder and back muscles a moment before he leaned against the edge of the tub again.

Actually, he was grateful it wasn't worse. He'd stopped breathing for a moment when he'd seen the smoke rising in the distance from the motel. And when he'd roared up to the sight of Sam staked out spread-eagle on the ground in the desert sun a few dozen feet from the burning building, Dean had been sure for one horrible moment that his brother was dead. He'd taken out the two guys standing nearby almost distractedly, filling them full of rock salt. Either they were demons, which considering the way they'd gone down wasn't likely, or they were the kinds of sons-of-bitches who got a thrill from torturing others. Either way, Dean was feeling no regrets. He didn't even give them a second look as he flew past, down to his knees by Sam's side.

The first thing he realized was that Sam was breathing: deep, painful gulps, like air was in short supply. The second was that every inch of him was a raw red, blistering in some spots, from the relentless sun. And his shirt wasn't wet with sweat.

He talked to Sam while he pulled his boot knife and started on the ropes. His brother's eyes were swollen, probably unseeing even when they slitted open, but he turned his head toward Dean like he was listening. When he was free and Dean pulled the hot, limp body up to him, Sam even found Dean's shoulder with a sound that was almost relief.

And then he'd slurred Dean's name, pushing him away.

Dean had no idea how Sam had seen the guy sneaking up on him, let alone had put together that he was a threat and warned Dean. It saved his ass, though, and when Dean dispatched the third guy—biker?—and collected his mumbling, delirious brother again, Dean couldn't resist pressing his face into the sun-warmed hair for a moment, so aware yet again of how much Sam had been done wrong.

Sam had rambled on the way back to the car, about the sun, being a disappointment, not knowing and not meaning to…something. Dean had a few guesses what. It was when tears squeezed out of Sam's eyes to drip down onto the Impala's upholstery, liquid he couldn't afford, and muttered heartbrokenly about having nothing left, that Dean couldn't stand it anymore. He'd wanted to punish Sam, yeah, wanted to make him feel how much his brother's betrayal had hurt. But this…this was too much. He'd never wanted to break the kid, or to make him feel abandoned. Not ever.

"You didn't lose everything. I'm still here, Sam. I'm still here." He'd leaned over Sam and, God, his skin had been so _hot, _burning through Dean's shirt. He needed water and cooling off and fast. But even as Sam whispered about having nothing, Dean kinda felt like he needed this more, because Dean knew what it was like to have nothing to fight for.

"It's not. It's not nothing. Okay, so things are kind of lousy now, but we're still fighting, right? It's not over yet, Sam. Still got Bobby and Cas, and me. Got your brother."

Sam seemed to calm down after that. Enough that Dean could dig out a bottle of water from under the seat and offer him some, then wet his face, his hair, his shirt. Sam's soft sighs of relief dug their way under Dean's skin: he'd been enjoying a few cold ones in town while Sam had been staked out to burn, Dean didn't even know for what. He shouldn't have left Sam behind. He shouldn't have ever left Sam behind.

"Dean." Sam's eyes hadn't been open; it would have seemed like a mere sigh if not for the way Sam's head unerringly rolled toward him.

"Yeah, man." He'd leaned closer as Sam's eyes fluttered, glassy and deeply confused.

They blinked at him a few times in silence, but he could see the _will_ behind them.

"Yeah, I got it," Dean finally said, quiet and sober. And he had.

Sam had let out a slow breath and drifted off after that.

He'd been insensible of Dean's race back to Quemado, the wind whipping through the windows and over sun-raked skin. He hadn't even stirred when Dean had pulled him out of the back seat, dropped him over a shoulder, and taken him into the a/c-blasted motel room. He'd frowned and arched a little when Dean immersed him in cold water in the bathtub, but there was no comprehension in his eyes when they flickered open or in the sounds that slipped through cracked and bleeding lips.

That had been the afternoon before.

Night had seen little change. Dean had dared go out as far as the soda machine in the parking lot, returning with cold bottles of Gatorade he poured down Sam's throat. Every half-hour, he changed the tepid water for a fresh cold bath, and reassured Sam when he twitched from confusion or cold. Dean also regularly checked his pulse, his temp, and his bp, too aware of the list of internal complications that could come from being overheated. The one thing he made no headway on was mental awareness checks, Sam not coherent enough to do more than mumble and flinch whenever Dean tried to rouse him. Back in the desert, though, he'd seen the knowledge in Sam's eyes that Dean was there, the anxiety over not being able to communicate with him, and he had to believe that Sam's mind wasn't broiled under all that hair, that he just needed rest and recovery time and he'd be back to his annoying self.

"I got it, you know," Dean said conversationally if hoarsely in the early morning quiet of the bathroom. He propped his cheek on his updrawn knee again. "I remember what you were like, Sam, all full of passion and ideas and hope." He'd been such a bright, warm-hearted, earnest kid. It hadn't been his idea to have to choose between school and family, nor the woman he loved or hunting. He hadn't asked for abilities, or to be special. He'd been stabbed in the back by a person whose life he'd spared, and witnessed his brother die horribly. And then when he'd wanted to fix it, he'd sold his soul just a little less literally than his father and brother had, only to lose everything in the gamble. Sam had tried so very hard all along to do the right thing despite terrible losses and powerful foes. "You just couldn't win, could you?" Dean mused. "Think the deck was always stacked against us, dude."

Sam twisted a little, sliding down fractionally on the towel Dean had folded between his back and the tub. The water was halfway up his chin now, and Dean rose to his knees to tug Sam back up. He'd dozed in brief snatches there on the bathroom floor, but he was too afraid Sam would drown himself to be able to really relax. And pulling him out now, when he still recoiled from air like it burned, wasn't an option yet.

Dean settled back again, eyes instantly feeling heavy. "But I know you tried. That you didn't want any of this. I think…I think if I just focus on that, maybe we can get back to what we were. I can do the forgiving, but the forgetting, it's gonna take some time. But I'm working on it, okay? I hear you, Sam." How could he not when his seriously out-of-it brother still pulled himself together to watch Dean's back?

Sam sighed, head lolling Dean's way, chin brushing the surface of the water again.

Dean huffed. "Yeah, and how screwed up are we that I'm telling you this while you're lying naked in the bathtub looking like a cooked lobster?"

But when he tilted Sam's head back out of the water, he did it very gently.

00000

The air hurt.

The coolness of the a/c was a relief, but even its caress prickled his skin painfully. It felt like he'd been peeled from head to foot, every nerve raw and exposed. The sheets under him hurt, the soft weight of his boxers, even his hair as it brushed his forehead.

Sam tried halfheartedly to burrow back into the escape of sleep, but it retreated from him as he reached for it. Sam sighed: fine. He was thirsty anyway. Then he'd sleep. He opened his eyes, the skin around them tight and puffy.

His gaze immediately fell on Dean. Of course. His brother was sitting on the end of the other bed, a few feet away from the TV, which was on if barely audible. But Dean wasn't watching. His elbows were propped on his knees and his head was dropped into his hands with a weariness that made Sam ache a whole other way.

He tried to clear his throat but his voice still came out as a whisper. "Sunburn sucks."

Dean's head came up, his eyes bloodshot and a good layer of stubble on his face, but a tired smile cut through the hangdog look. "Hey, you're the one who usually tans while I burn. S'just your turn."

Sam scoffed. "Pretty sure you were never tied down while you were sunbathing." He still couldn't seem to raise his voice; maybe his throat had dried out as much as the rest of him.

Whether to hear him better or just to be nearer, Dean got up and rounded the bed, sitting on the side nearest Sam. He reached out to snag a bottle that sat on the table between the beds. "Well, there was one time with this girl in Ft. Lauderdale—"

Sam startled into a laugh…which pulled on way too many places where his skin was too taut and sensitive. He gave a cough, moaned, then squeezed his eyes shut. "Don't make me laugh."

Dean didn't answer. Sam's neck was lifted and the bottle put to his mouth. Gatorade, room temp but his favorite flavor. Sam swallowed a few sips, pleasantly surprised to feel his stomach accept the liquid with little protest, then he was laid back down. More sound of movement. He didn't bother looking until something pleasantly cool touched his arm. Sam opened his eyes in surprise.

Dean held up a tube. "Used one of those scrip pads we stole from…" He frowned, thinking. "…some doctor, got some medicated stuff for your skin. I think it's working—you're pink instead of red now."

"Terrific," Sam said wearily, sinking back into the pillow. Which felt like sandpaper. "Fine, 's not like I've got any dignity left…"

"Aw, don't be like that," Dean coaxed cheerfully while his fingers drew cool lines across Sam's skin. "You were only in the tub, like, a day."

Tub? There was a vague memory… Sam groaned. "Don' wanna know."

There was silence for a long time. His arm felt better when Dean was done, and his brother moved on to his chest, then his other arm. It almost felt too cool, the gel together with the a/c, but cold was so much better than hot. Sam's breath hitched as he remembered the burning heat, the sluggishness of his thoughts and the hopelessness of the situation. And then it felt like he was in an oven, and some part of him wondered if that was how Dean had felt in Hell.

"So what did they want?" Dean finally asked as he moved down to Sam's right leg.

Sam made a face. It felt like his skin cracked from it. "Our weapons. Saw us after the hunt. Thought we were gunrunners."

"Son of a— I knew somebody broke into the trunk!"

"What'd you—?"

"Left 'em there and called in an anonymous tip. Probably should've capped 'em but I was in a hurry. I saw the guy you took down, by the way—not bad, little brother."

There was genuine admiration in Dean's voice, but all Sam heard was that he'd only gotten one of four. He grimaced.

"So, they got mad at you when they couldn't find the guns?"

Sam rolled his head tiredly on the pillow. "Wanted me to spill."

"That when they set the fire?"

"I did that. Got away the first time." His eyes snapped open with a sudden thought. "Dad's journal—"

"Easy, Sparky, I got it." Dean pressed him back down carefully. "They loaded up on their bikes whatever they thought they could use, I guess. Got your gun and knife back, too."

Sam exhaled. "Good. S'good."

There was a long pause, Dean no longer touching him. Sam finally pried his eyes open again, to see his brother looking pale and shame-faced.

"What?" Sam asked.

"You should've told 'em, Sam," Dean said dolefully, but the frustration was clearly directed at himself. "I could've taken care of anyone who came after me."

Sam made a bitter sound. "Like I did?"

"Dude." Dean moved up beside his hip. "You still weren't a hundred percent, you were sleeping, and I'm guessing it was three against one, right? Probably took you by surprise?" At Sam's silence, he nodded. "I had one guy on my tail, and I even thought I saw him on the road but I didn't look too hard. I could've come back a lot sooner if…" His lip curled.

"Don't." Sam closed his eyes again. "Don't, okay? You didn't know what would happen." He was well aware what that was like.

Another long silence. Another effort to look at Dean, this time with more trepidation, half-expecting to see old anger or, worse, betrayal still simmering in his eyes. Sam still caught glimpses of it here and there, when Dean would get quiet and withdrawn, and it never failed to punch another hole in his heart.

That wasn't what burned intensely in Dean's eyes now, though. Sam saw it as if his brother said it out loud: the recognition, the guilt, the self-condemnation. Three months ago, Dean had been all for killing Lilith, if not the way Sam wanted. There was a lot they hadn't known until it was too late, and hindsight was a bitch. Maybe the end didn't justify the means, but did it make it worse? They'd both had good intentions, and Dean knew that. He'd always known that.

Dean quietly slid back down the bed and returned to spreading the ointment down Sam's leg and up the other, softening his touch whenever the cadence of Sam's breathing betrayed his pain.

Sam's face was last, and by the time Dean was done, the tension of discomfort had eased from him. "Thanks, Dean," he exhaled, half asleep and more relaxed than he'd thought possible.

He felt Dean's slightly greasy hand on the top of his head, something he was pretty sure Dean had done before, too. Something a big brother did.

"Yeah, anytime," Dean breathed, sounding completely like he meant it.

And the comfort of that eased Sam's way into sleep far more than any medicine could.

**The End**

_Copies of _Blood Brothers 6_ still available from Jeanne Gold at TeaJunkie at comcast dot net._


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